


Trapped by the Cat

by Esteliel



Series: Tell Night From Day [7]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Blow Jobs, D/s play, Emotional Baggage, Figging, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Prostate Milking, Valjean's issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:26:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3681429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It will be sweeter if he waits. It will please Javert more to toy with him. And it is not so bad to be the mouse when the cat has no claws.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trapped by the Cat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tvglow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tvglow/gifts).



> Inspired by Daria's [figging art](http://esteliel.tumblr.com/post/104360573698/jammersminde-so-the-first-les-mis-post-i-make) because you can never go wrong with ginger Javert figging Valjean. <3

Valjean has come to know Javert's moods. He has seen him anguished, annoyed, mindless with desire – even happy. Today, when Javert opens and closes the door with a little more force than he usually uses, Valjean recognizes that mood too and shivers, though not from fear. A tentative warmth curls through his belly at the strangely intent stare that is focused on him. And if he feels like a mouse trapped by a cat, then that is because the mood that has overcome Javert is that of the hunt. 

Of course Valjean has no intention to run. But what does a cat do with a trapped mouse that does not run?

It will play with it, Valjean thinks, and licks suddenly dry lips. The thought is not displeasing. Not at all.

It does not start straightaway. Or perhaps it does – this thing between them has no name and no rules, and he supposes that Javert is as baffled by it as he still is. But on days like this, all it takes is a glance, and suddenly there will be a tension in the air, and every gaze takes on weight until the most innocent touch has the power to make him shiver.

Today, this is how it happens as well. The mood has taken Javert before it found him, and once Javert has closed the door and looked at him, slowly, blatantly enjoying the sight of him in a way that makes Valjean think of the way Javert looks at him when he is undressed, it starts.

"Did you have a pleasant walk?" Valjean asks and is proud of how his voice does not yet give away the way Javert's gaze heats his own blood.

Javert's lips twist into a small smile. "I went to the market," he said. "On my way there, I walked past a... discussion. If you can call it that. Maybe a fight. In any case, it woke a memory."

"A good memory?" Valjean keeps his hands in his lap. It is ridiculous. All Javert does is lean against the wall and stare at him so blatantly, a heat in his gaze that makes Valjean's own heart beat faster in answer. How did this happen? How did this strange thing between them develop? This chain that has bound them for so long still remains, only now Javert has intimate knowledge of all his dreams and his secrets – and Javert is not above using that knowledge to pull on the chain until he has the reaction he wants, Valjean thinks. Of course, Valjean cannot blame him for it. He has never resisted. How could he, when he wants Javert's touch so much.

But Javert does not touch him now. Javert just stares and smiles.

"... No. But not a bad memory either."

"Ah," Valjean says, because he does not know what else to say. His throat is dry. How will Javert toy with him today, he wonders. Perhaps that is his plan: to watch, to stare with such blatant lust until at last Valjean will be reduced to begging from the weight of his gaze alone.

Valjean ruefully admits to himself that it is a possibility. He would not put it past Javert, and of course, the truth is that under Javert's large, possessive hands, he has indeed learned to beg at last. The memory still comes with a tinge of shame, but he does not regret it. It is too good. He will beg again, if that is what Javert wants.

Javert is still smiling, that secret, cruel smile of the cat that once frightened him so and now, inexplicably, arouses instead. Perhaps it is because Javert has stopped hunting him that now feeling himself caught is something he has come to crave.

Javert takes his time. He leaves Valjean sitting in his chair, and after a long while, Valjean tries to make himself concentrate on his book once more. It is difficult to focus now, and he thinks of how easy it would be to go after Javert and ask him for – whatever it is that is on his mind. But the mere thought makes him flush with embarrassment. It is one thing to do these things. It is another to be so blatant about it. He knows that Javert wants him to ask for what he wants, and he would never want Javert to believe that his touch is not desperately wanted – but all the same, it is difficult to be so blatant about it, and Valjean knows that if he gives this heat that suffuses him time, it will grow and spread through him until at last, he will have no choice but to let himself be consumed by it.

The thought is welcome.

#

Javert corners him in the kitchen again. Valjean has begun to prepare tea, and while the leaves steep, Javert walks towards him, and then into him, pressing him against the wall with nothing but his presence. They both know that Valjean is stronger. He could push Javert aside easily with a single hand. Instead, he feels his back come to rest against the wall, and his heart speeds up as one of Javert's large hands strokes down his chest, down where now between his legs his pulse begins to throb.

Javert keeps one arm on the wall. The other hand is thrust into his trousers, and now at last a gasp escapes Valjean's lips, and his eyes fall closed as he shivers. Javert's palm is warm and pleasingly rough as he grasps his cock just like that.

“All it takes is for me to look at you, and you get hard,” Javert whispers into his ear. Valjean shivers again and keeps his eyes closed as Javert's fingers tighten around him. He cannot bear to look. If he watches, he fears he might not last. “A man your age. See how hard you are already.”

Valjean bites his lip to resist the urge to thrust into that tight grasp. It will be sweeter if he waits. It will please Javert more to toy with him. And it is not so bad to be the mouse when the cat has no claws.

Javert's breath comes hot and fast against his ear. His whiskers scratch against his cheek. All he can hear is the sound of his own heartbeat as Javert's fingers slide over him possessively, teasing him to aching hardness – and then leave him like that, that large hand sliding out of his trousers as easily as it has slipped inside.

“Look at you,” Javert says, his voice thick with lust, and then he turns to see to the tea, and Valjean needs long minutes to compose himself. He does not touch himself. That would be to break the unspoken rules of this game. That would be to lose the game, and if he loses it, he wants to lose it at Javert's hands, and only after he has forced his body to struggle for as long as it can bear.

#

After tea, he has planned to see to a few letters awaiting an answer, but he already knows it will be no use. He cannot concentrate today, not like this. He is still aroused, aching against the stretch of his trousers. He thinks of Javert touching him again and flushes, his eyes coming to rest guiltily on where Javert is browsing their bookshelf with a frown. His heart keeps beating hard and fast in his chest, in time with the throb of blood between his legs. The ache is distracting, but he keeps himself from reaching down to touch himself, or rearranging his disobedient cock in his trousers. It would feel wrong with Javert here in the room. He cannot even say why. But then, he has known discomfort, and he has known pain. This is torment, but a torment he can bear easily, and something he will bear gladly for Javert.

In the end, he settles on his chair by the window with a book. He thinks he might have to read the chapter again tomorrow, for try as he might, he cannot concentrate on the sentences, but at least it is enough to take his mind off the insistent pulse of blood between his legs and the insidious thoughts of what Javert will choose to do to him later. 

He thinks again of the day when he struggled on the bed, his wrists tied, his eyes bound, his body filled beyond what he thought he could bear. But Javert asked him to bear it, and so he made himself bear it, forcing his body to obey his will once more until every nerve screamed with exhaustion and pleasure. Pride is not a feeling Valjean indulges in, but there is no sweeter satisfaction than that dull burn of utter exhaustion afterwards, when he knows that he drove his body past what men could bear, and yet had born it.

Javert walks towards him at last, and he shivers at the sound his boots make on the wooden floor. That is the only sound, for Javert does not talk. But then, what reason is there for talk when they both know that Valjean will obey regardless, he thinks, and swallows when Javert comes to stand before him. Valjean can not look at him, although his heartbeat echoes loud and fast in his ears. A shadow has covered the page he looks at, for Javert stands in the way of the sunlight that falls in through the window. Still Valjean can not make himself look up, and then Javert nudges his knees apart.

Valjean exhales shakily even though he pretends to be engrossed in whatever is written on the page he has stared at for long minutes, but still he spreads his legs, until Javert stands between his thighs.

Javert rests on hand on the chair's backrest.

“Open your trousers,” he says. The words are a command, both arrogant and possessive, and Valjean's heart skips a beat and then continues to thud painfully against his chest. Very slowly, he puts down the book. Then, forcing himself not to think beyond the aching pulse of his blood and the feeling of Javert's smooth boots pressing against his spread thighs, he reaches down for his trousers, opening them with fingers that tremble despite his best efforts.

His throat is dry. He cannot look at Javert. He cannot look down either, although he can imagine it all too well: his trousers parted as his straining prick eagerly juts forward, so foreign in its boldness that it seems no part of him, and yet... And yet it is, and he knows Javert's eyes rest on it even now, and he flushes and keeps his eyes on the table.

What must Javert think, he wonders, hoping – dreading – that Javert will be pleased...

His breath escapes in a gasp when Javert's warm palm covers him once more.

“Look at you,” Javert murmurs, smug. “A man your age, and you cannot control yourself.”

“Javert,” Valjean says weakly, and then chokes back whatever else he might have said when Javert presses his thumb right to the sensitive ridge, rubs there until Valjean has to curl his hands into fists and close his eyes and bite his lips to hold back a helpless whimper as his cock strains against his belly. 

Oh God. Oh God. Javert could torment him like this all day if he pleases...

He cannot even say whether it is fear or arousal that rushes through him at that thought. It is impossible to think with Javert so focused on calmly tormenting him.

“Look at how shameless you are.” Javert laughs softly and releases him at last, but his breathing is heavy as well, and hunger makes his voice rough.

“Are you...” Valjean has to swallow. “Did I do something wrong?” Feverish, he thinks of the cake, but no, Cosette has not sent cake since that last time – Javert bought some himself last week and he ate every single morsel Javert fed him with his own hands. He has fed a gamin with a leftover chicken yesterday, but their portress always cooks too much, and he knows Javert does not mind that.

Now Javert laughs again. “Do you think I need a reason then?” Once more, that large palm strokes him, and Valjean hears a moan escape as rough fingers close possessively around him.

“No. You've done nothing wrong. Except for the state you are in. _Look_ at you, Valjean,” he says, hunger and desire dripping from his voice, and now Valjean needs to look and cannot breathe for a moment as he watches the tight grip of Javert's fingers slide upwards until a bead of slickness starts to drip from the hole at the tip. Then Javert's hand falls away, and Valjean looks at himself, red and hard, jutting out of his opened trousers like – he does not even know what to call it, save that it makes him nearly tremble with shame to think of himself sitting here in his chair by the window, respectably dressed save for the fact that his trousers are undone and that thick, disobedient flesh strains against his belly, flushed with blood.

Javert swallows. “That's reason enough,” he says, his voice tight. “Come. I'm of a mind to make you show off for me today.”

#

Once they are in their bedroom, it gets at once easier and harder. It is easier because in this room, he has allowed Javert to love him in a thousand ways. It gets harder because Javert tells him to undress, his voice still rough and hungry so that a shiver moves through Valjean, sweat beading between his shoulder blades before he has even lifted his hand to his shirt.

Javert watches as he takes off his clothes. It should not be so unsettling when in this bed, they have slept together countless nights, skin pressed to skin. But it is different like this. It is not fear – he cannot fear Javert ever again, not when Javert has wept in his arms, not when Javert has held him in his own anguish. But to have him watch, to have him stare with those arrogant eyes dark with a deep, possessive enjoyment as Valjean slowly pulls off his shirt – it makes something within him tremble. It is not fear. Perhaps it is simply the magnitude of trust it takes to bare himself to Javert, to make himself vulnerable before this one man whom he should not trust in such a way. 

Valjean cannot see the scars on his own back, but he does not need to. They could just as well have laid the scars into his soul, so deeply have they marked him. They will always be a part of him, and he cannot help but think even now that hands like Javert's have left those marks on him. 

Why then would he place himself once more into those hands? Not just in love – but also in this, whatever it is? A part of the warmth that spreads through his body and makes his face flush with heat is shame. But the greatest part of it is desire, and he takes a deep breath and allows the feeling to wash through him. The room seems stiflingly hot with Javert's lust, and he makes himself remember that. Those scars are a memory of cold cruelty. But what is between them – there is nothing cold about it. Even Javert's cruelty will be dripped onto his skin like honey, warm and sweet and mixed with such pleasure that in the end, the ecstasy and that bone-deep weariness of having withstood whatever torment Javert has devised for him today will make him glad that he placed his life into Javert's hands.

“Look at you,” Javert says again when Valjean at last stands naked before Javert, who is still fully clothed. It should not be embarrassing, Valjean tells himself, for he undresses every evening to sleep by Javert's side – and yet, this is different, and he cannot quite meet Javert's eyes as a flush spreads hot across his body, imagining where Javert's gaze must be lingering. 

Javert likes to look at him. Valjean does not know why it is so embarrassing then, and yet it is even though he knows that Javert is pleased, even though he can hear Javert's breathing grow heavier as well and hear the way desire makes his voice rough and his words more impatient. 

“On the bed. Turn onto your stomach,” Javert says, and Valjean obeys. He does not mind when Javert grows demanding – a part of him likes it, he admits to himself as he carefully stretches himself out on the cool sheets. Javert loves him, he knows that. But Javert also hungers for him, desiring him with a greed that still comes as a surprise to Valjean, even now, when he should be well aware of how much Javert cherishes him. 

Javert's touch is always certain, sometimes impatient with hunger, demanding – but he does not mind that at all, Valjean thinks to himself as he shifts, biting his lip again as his hard cock drags against the sheets. Sometimes, when his heart is too afraid to believe that he deserves this, that certainly taking such happiness and love for granted must be a great sin, it is not words but touch that teaches him otherwise. His heart might still fear at times, but his body has been taught by Javert's large, impatient, admiring hands that he is desired and needed. And that is reason enough to spread himself out like this at a word of command.

Javert comes to sit down beside him. When Valjean turns his head, he sees Javert take something from a pocket and place it on the bedside table. The first is some kind of root, as large as Javert's fist. The other is – a knife.

A small shudder runs through Valjean. He is not afraid. He trusts Javert. And still...

He closes his eyes, feeling the cool air on the bare skin of his back, listening to the rapid thudding of his heart. Javert's hand comes to rest on his neck and slowly strokes the hair that curls against his nape. 

Valjean swallows and presses his cheek against the cushion. How strange it is to feel so helpless when there are no bonds. But in this, he is bound by his will alone, and that is a chain more formidable than iron. He would not mind iron now, he thinks as he grips the sheet when Javert's hand slowly glides down his back. For Javert, he would not mind suffering in iron for an afternoon, just like this. It's different to suffer for Javert's pleasure, and there is a strange peace to be found in muscles that burn with dull weariness.

Javert's fingers stroke the scars that line his back. He can feel the way they slide slowly along a furrow. It has been so very long, but he still remembers the pain of being lashed, the screaming of his back, the misery of the nights to come when it was hard to find a comfortable position to sleep in.

Now, he rests on a soft mattress, on clean sheet – but that memory remains, burned into his soul like the scars on his skin.

Javert's hand trails up to his shoulder again, warm and familiar. That is strange too, that he should have become so used to being touched. Javert makes another low sound as he squeezes his arm, almost as if to test the hardness of his muscles, and then his hand moves onward, slides down his arm until the fingers find yet another scar, where once he allowed himself to be burned.

“So many men left their mark on you,” Javert says huskily, and then he bends forward. Valjean cannot make himself open his eyes, but then he feels Javert's tongue lick hot across the burn mark and he gasps. 

“See, here they made you burn yourself, and you bore it. I want to burn you too. I want to burn my touch into you. I'll burn you from the inside, and you'll bear it, because I ask it of you. Won't you?”

Valjean gasps again as Javert's lips move against his skin. Now he has to open his eyes after all. He does not know what Javert intends. He trusts Javert – but the heat of his breath against where iron once seared his skin has made him tremble, and although he trusts Javert with his life – would perhaps – oh God, it is true! – would let Javert burn him if he desired it just to prove that he could withstand it – although no, is that not pride, too– 

He is too dizzy to think. His mind reels and twists and still he is achingly hard, his cock squeezed between his stomach and the sheets. But when he opens his eyes, Javert is smiling and leans forward to pick up the root and the knife.

“I saw a fight near the market, where they sell horses.” Javert's voice is soft. He turns the ginger in his hand as if to test its weight and form. “And then I remembered how beautiful you looked when you strained and writhed and allowed me to touch you, how my entire hand slid inside and how you moaned–”

Javert has to swallow, and Valjean cannot suppress the whimper this time as he presses his hips to the bed.

“They use ginger. To make an old horse prance like a young one. Well, I don't want you to prance – but I want you to burn, and to bear it for me, for as long as you can.”

Javert smiles and rests a hand on his thigh, and Valjean obediently stills, although his blood is racing in his veins now.

“And you will, if I demand it of you.”

It is not a question, and a part of Valjean appreciates that, even if he has to stifle another gasp into the pillow at the thought of Javert doing... He cannot quite think it. He cannot think it, but he knows it is going to happen: he is bare and vulnerable and defenseless, while Javert, impeccably dressed, sits next to him and now begins to peel the ginger with the knife.

“Imagine that,” Javert murmurs, his voice intimately soft. “Imagine how I was standing there at the market and thought of tormenting you like that horse vendor showing off his stallion's strength and energy. And I thought of how good you are, how much you could take, how you stretched around my wrist and trembled when I filled you like that. How you took those beads and writhed when I tied your hands. And with those filthy thoughts of you in mind I stood there at the market stall, and carefully looked for the biggest ginger root I could find, because I want you to feel this. Not my hand – but I think you will like this. Or perhaps you won't. It does not matter anyway, does it? You will take it because I demand it.”

There is a smug heat in Javert's voice. Valjean, when he opens his eyes, watches him peel away the skin of the ginger with his knife. Valjean is breathless, ashamed and aroused at the same time. A part of him knows that he should not want such things, but once more warmth curls through his limbs at Javert's blatant possessiveness and the pleasure Javert finds in his body.

“I don't need any other reason but that I want to hear the sounds you will make as you bear this for me, for as long as I demand.” 

Javert puts the knife down again. The sharp smell of the ginger feels the room, and Valjean looks at it in trepidation. It is no longer as large as Javert's fist, but he thinks it might be the width of Javert's prick. He has to swallow when he imagines Javert buying such a thing at the market with the intention to whittle it into such a shape at home. It is indecent, and for a moment he cannot breathe when he thinks of proper Javert carrying it home with him, spending the entire long walk with thoughts of him – thoughts of him like _this_ : naked and spread out, obediently offering himself up to such obscene punishment.

“Now part your legs. Spread yourself for me.”

Valjean presses his cheek against the pillow. His breath hitches in his throat as he does as he is bid, flushing a deep red as he reaches back to spread himself with his own hands, his heart thundering in his ears as he thinks of Javert's eyes on him there.

His heartbeat pulses between his legs as well, hot and insistent, but he manages to resist the need to rub himself against the sheets, even though he has been hard for so long now that his body is aching with it.

“Look at you,” Javert says again, and there is no derision at all in his voice, just heat and a smug, disbelieving possessiveness. 

Valjean gasps as a finger touches his hole. It is sticky with the juices of the ginger. Lightly, it rubs at him, circling him until Valjean shyly, hesitantly pushes up his hips to offer himself as much as he can. Javert's finger slides inside almost as if in reward, and Valjean can feel a slight, tingling warmth from the ginger's juices. It is pleasant, and not painful at all; he breathes a moan against the pillow and tries to push back for more, but then Javert pulls away and what presses against him next is much larger.

“Take it,” Javert says. His voice is certain; so is the press of the ginger against him, and although it suddenly feels much larger than Javert, who even when hard is warm and human inside him, Valjean grips the sheets and makes himself obey. His body yields as the hard root presses mercilessly against him and then begins to slide inside when he relaxes for it. His breath hitches again at the strange sensation, for the ginger is slick not from oil, but from its own juices that are strangely cold at first but then grow warm. He tightens instinctively; his breath escapes in a hiss when the warmth intensifies until the tingling feels strange and uncomfortable, but Javert still presses the root against him. He is unyielding in his demand, and so Valjean makes himself yield to it instead, his hands curling into fists even as he relaxes and pushes back with a soft groan to feel it slide all the way inside him. It still feels strange. It might not be larger than Javert, but it sits thick and heavy and unyielding inside him now, spreading him open, the ginger's juices biting at the tender, soft places within him that are not used to such a thing and tremble around it. But it cannot be expelled; Javert has whittled the root so that his hole clenches around the indentation he has carved around it while the ginger sits inside him.

“There,” Javert murmurs and releases his grip on it at last. “There, I told you you would take it. And you did.” 

He sounds pleased, his voice throaty, and Valjean shifts his hips in discomfort, hissing again as his insides tingle when the sharp juices of the ginger begin their work. The warmth within him is strangely pleasant for a moment – a groan is pulled from him as his cock drags heavy and hard against the sheets. Javert's hand trails up his back again, but Javert does not speak, and Valjean bites his lip and keeps his face turned into the pillow as he concentrates on the sensations within him.

The tingling grows until at last, it is no longer pleasant but makes him keep shifting his hips. It is no longer warm – the root within him is hot, and he gasps and squeezes his eyes shut as it keeps burning inside him. Javert's hand trails up to his shoulder blade, and Valjean makes another sound of discomfort.

“Others have marked you – but you will remember _this_ , won't you? I'll leave my mark inside you,” he whispers, bending down so that Valjean can feel his breath against his ear and gasps again. Valjean's skin is damp with sweat; the air feels cool now, but within him, the fire burns hotter. Javert's hands slide over his back, massaging his tense muscles, and Valjean keeps his eyes squeezed shut, moaning helplessly into the pillow as the ginger within keeps burning.

It is torment. It is unlike anything he has ever known. His muscles tremble with the need to hold still; his hole stings, and every time he tenses around the ginger, the burn intensifies until the ache makes tears start to spill from his eyes and he has to press his face into the pillow in quiet shame. He feels full and spread and overwhelmed. He wants to apologize to Javert now, for upsetting him on that day when he had writhed just like this and longed to surrender and test himself so completely that Javert had been able to slide his entire hand inside him. It had spooked Javert; he knows that now and is sorry for it, and perhaps this is Javert's revenge...

If it is, he can understand now how Javert felt, for this is unbearable too, and he does not know how to deal with it. He wants to plead with Javert, but cannot bear the shame; he wants Javert to punish him for being unable to take this, he wants–

"God, look at you," Javert says again, his voice so heavy with hunger that Valjean stifles a sob against the pillow, his hips rubbing against the sheet that drags deliciously against his swollen prick while inside, he is burning up with the pain of the ginger's juices. 

He has asked for so many things from Javert, and Javert has always given them. He has made Javert torment him in so many ways, and Valjean has always withstood any ordeal, coming forth from every encounter weary but filled with that tired peace of being certain of his own strength once more. Now, at last, he is no longer certain: now the ginger makes him burn and ache, his hole sore and swollen around the painful root that holds it spread open, and he knows he will not be able to withstand it for long. Already he is weeping; soon he will break down and beg, and then what will Javert think, to see him so weak when before, Valjean has always been strong...

Javert's hand trails through his hair again, then grabs a fistful and pulls his head up by it.

"Does it ache?" Javert says hungrily. "Here. I have a task to distract you."

With his other hand, he quickly opens his trousers; Valjean is a little reassured by the way Javert's own fingers tremble, but Javert's cock is hard and flushed with blood, and Valjean is still so ashamed of his tears that he is grateful when Javert draws his head down.

Obediently, he opens his mouth; Javert is too impatient to let him lick and mouth at the impressive, hot length, and instead forces him down by his grip on his hair. Valjean allows that eager prick to slide into his mouth; Javert is neither patient nor considerate today and buries himself inside him with a grunt, his fingers tightening even more to hold Valjean in place as he is forced to swallow around the thick head of Javert's prick.

Javert has called it a task, and it is. Valjean can only make muffled noises and try as best he can to please Javert – but it does not take much. Javert is hard against his tongue, and thrusts into him with that uncontrolled need that shows that Javert is close.

He is not considerate, but Valjean does not mind; it distracts from the hot ache of the ginger inside him, and as rough as the thrusts are, Javert's hands tremble a little as they loosen their grip and pet his hair instead.

It is overwhelming. Valjean keeps his eyes closed, more tears running down his cheeks as Javert drowns him in sensation. He can only feel the burn inside him, the painful ache of where his own swollen cock still slides against the sheets, the heat of Javert's cock rubbing over his tongue every time Javert thrusts into his mouth. Javert's fingers keep playing with the hair that sticks to his nape so that he trembles, stroking him with tenderness even as Javert loses all control and bucks up, filling his throat at last with the warm rush of his spend. 

"Yes. Yes, just like that. Take it all," Javert murmurs, breathless now, and Valjean feels more tears escape his eyes as the loving, possessive smugness of Javert's voice washes over him even while the ginger still burns and stings inside him.

Javert pulls out when Valjean has swallowed all. Valjean rests his head against his thigh again, hiding his tear-stained cheeks and muffling his needy moans against Javert's trousers. He is out of breath, his heart is racing in his chest; everything hurts, every muscle is so tense that he cannot move, can only breathe shallowly and try to relax around the ginger inside him...

Javert's hand slides down over his buttocks and Valjean shudders in distress. 

"Please," he begs, ashamed of how the tears make his voice crack. Javert's fingers find the root he has pressed inside him and work it loose. It makes Valjean groan; his hole feels strangely tender and hot, swollen around the stinging ginger, almost as though his body refuses to release it; Javert patiently twists and turns it until the tight muscle reluctantly relaxes around it – and then Javert thrusts it in hard, pressing it right up against the spot inside him that makes Valjean gasp and arch his back and clutch at the sheets once more as a sob is dragged from him.

"Do you like that? I think _I_ do," Javert murmurs and strokes his cheek. Valjean sobs, ashamed at how Javert must be able to feel the wetness of his tears. "Look at how well you bear this for me. Up on your hands and knees now."

Valjean exhales; it nearly turns into another sob, but he is able to bite back the sound as he shifts, although his head hangs down and his body is tense as the motion makes the ginger inside him rub against his already tender insides. Like this, it is even harder to bear; the position forces the ginger to press against the hot, swollen part within him that is already irritated from the ginger's juices, and now, under the constant, burning pressure, forces more tears to escape his eyes as he tries his best to hold still. Every heartbeat makes his sore hole throb and tighten around the root, every breath threatens to turn into a whimper as he forces his trembling body to remain still, to bear the burning torment – and then Javert laughs again, throaty and breathless, and sits down beside him once more.

His hand is still sticky with the ginger's juices, and when it wraps around Valjean's prick at last, Valjean moans with grateful relief. A moment later, his prick too feels that familiar warmth, and the tingling as the ginger starts its work, and now he wants to beg because it is too much, because he cannot be expected–

Javert's other hand takes hold of the ginger again and forces it deeper inside. This time Valjean groans, his sweat-slick body trembling, instinct making him thrust forward, his cock fucking the tight grip of Javert's hand.

Javert laughs again and releases the ginger. “That's it,” he murmurs. “Look at you. If only you could see yourself... Go on. Show me. Let me watch as you come.”

Javert's grip on his prick is tight. There is only the slickness of their sweat and the ginger's juices, and thrusting into the tight ring his fingers form would be painful if Valjean were not already suffering from worse pain. 

He cannot make his body obey his will any longer; he is lost, instinct takes over, he clenches around the ginger inside him that makes him burn worse than even the stretch of Javert's hand did, fucks Javert's fist, his arms trembling as he tries to hold himself up. He can feel Javert's hand on his back, stroking him as one would perhaps pet a horse, and he wants to feel ashamed – he _is_ ashamed to have Javert see him like this, at Javert's amusement at witnessing his utter loss of control, and yet it is too much. He cannot stop, can only thrust into that tight grip while the heat of the ginger works itself deeper and deeper into him. Threads of fire coil all through his body, and his prick too is burning now, throbbing with every loud beat of his heart until he fears that his heart will shatter, that he will black out from lack of air, and then it overcomes him and he tenses, sobbing even as his balls ache and tighten and spill his seed into Javert's fist.

 

He is not certain how much time has passed, only that he can still hear his heartbeat loud in his ears. Sweat is cooling on his body. He blinks tiredly and forces himself to unclench one fist so that he can wipe at the tear tracks on his cheeks. He shifts – and then groans in misery when the ginger inside him shifts as well, sending out a new wave of biting heat.

Javert's hand rests his between his shoulder blades, but now it moves lower.

"Relax," Javert says, and Valjean squeezes his eyes shut, trying to hold back more tears when Javert's fingers work the ginger loose once more. His body clenches around it, and Javert's fingers against his swollen, sore hole are nearly unbearable, but at last Javert pulls it out, and Valjean stifles his moan of discomfort at the stinging stretch into the pillow.

Javert's fingers linger. They circle his hole. Valjean chokes on a moan when two fingers slip inside, lightly rubbing against him there so that his body arches obediently, even though every muscle in his body is exhausted to the point of soreness. 

"How did you like that?" Javert says. His fingers slide out again to trail around his hole once more, then slip inside again to the first knuckle, playing with the sensitivity of his sore skin more than seeking to pleasure him. There is a smugness in Javert's voice still, and Valjean's face is burning at the thought of Javert's eyes there, inspecting him like that as he plays with him. 

"I did not think you could withstand it for so long. But of course, you are always so good. Is there anything you cannot do? Is there anything I could ask of you that you would not be able to do for me?" 

Valjean shivers as the fingers press against him inside again, rubbing slowly, lovingly, until the pressure turns into torment and he breathes open-mouthed gasps into the pillow, his hips rising higher without conscious thought to make it easier for Javert to manipulate his body. His cock is still half-hard, and now, impossibly, he feels it twitch with interest again as Javert's fingers continue to press with unrelenting demand inside him.

"Javert," he says, choking on the word as it turns into a drawn-out moan.

Javert makes a pleased little sound. "You are so hot inside. Does it still burn? Shall we see if you have anything left to give?"

Valjean clenches his hands around the sheet again, shaking his head even as the pressure inside him builds. Everything aches. He cannot bear it; the pressure of Javert's demanding fingers is worse than the ginger, it is too much, it is too soon, he cannot–

"There," Javert says, his voice thick with lust as a long string of come starts to ooze from the tip of his cock. Valjean sobs, then bites his lip to hold back the sound. He is not even fully hard yet; he cannot, so soon, and yet Javert mercilessly keeps rubbing him inside, and his empty balls tense and clench and slowly, painfully, what little he has left is forced out of him by the relentless massage. It is not much, but even so, it drips in long, sticky strings from the tip of his cock onto the sheets until Valjean has to close his eyes. Every breath is agony as his balls burn, his body opening obediently to Javert's fingers as he allows himself to be invaded, pleasure wrung from him like water from a rag. 

Javert does not relent until he truly has forced the last drop of his spend from him, and Valjean collapses, boneless and utterly exhausted, his muscles so sore that he cannot hold himself up anymore. His body is slick with sweat; he trembles and still burns inside, feeling utterly empty, as though this long fight against himself has used up what secret reserves of strength might have been left to him. He thinks again of that moment when the whip is lowered, when that one thought manages to break through the agony: it is over. It is done. 

He does not think of it often now, save when he wakes sometimes at night, tense with fear as he anticipates the next strike of the lash, and instead finds himself in his bed. It has not ever stopped. It is less frequent – but the memory is burned into his soul as the scars are burned into his skin.

When Javert's hand trails up his back he shivers again with unease. Suddenly a wave of sickness rolls over him. How can he willingly allow Javert to do such things? It is not strength to give in to this. He shudders when he thinks of what Javert must think of him, of what Javert has just seen: his tears, the sounds he has made, the shamefulness of his body opening to him.

Javert's hand trails up to his nape, and there it remains, gently stroking his damp hair. Valjean tries to hold back the sobs that seem stuck in his chest, and then he feels Javert's lips against his skin and he begins to tremble again, sickened and ashamed by the sight he must be, although he does not have the strength left to move away. Javert's touch is the only thing that feels real. His eyes burn with shame at how little he deserves such gentleness, and at how much he wants it. 

Javert does not talk, but he also does not move away. Little by little, the pressure in Valjean's chest lessens. The ache does not fully go away, and Valjean thinks that if he were to turn over now, the tears he tries to hold back would start to fall nevertheless, but Javert's fingers are still playing with the sweat-soaked hair that curls against his nape, the motion repetitive and soothing.

After a while, Javert stands. He returns after a moment with a cloth, and Valjean is able to breathe deeply again by that point without choking on the sobs stuck in his chest. Warmth is slowly returning to his limbs, and the cold sickness curling in his stomach has made way for a deep weariness that wants to drag him under. He is grateful now for the way Javert is cleaning him, and even more grateful when Javert covers him with a blanket afterwards. 

Valjean finally turns towards him. He does not know what to say. He is ashamed of how he has broken down, and more ashamed that Javert was there to witness it, but also, somewhere deep inside his chest, warmth spreads when Javert takes hold of his hand and gently strokes his fingers with his own, uncurling Valjean's hand to press a kiss to where his nails have left marks on his skin.

“You're tired,” Javert says a little awkwardly. “I wanted to tell you that – that you never need to be afraid to ask me for anything. That even if I cannot do one thing there are other ways I'm willing... Well, I think now is not the time, you're half asleep. You should sleep.”

“I'm sorry,” Valjean says, and then wishes he could take back the words, because Javert flinches. 

“Valjean–”

Valjean raises himself up a little, then winces when his tired muscles protest. His knee is resting in a wet spot. But it is a soft mattress, and not a wooden plank, and he is too tired to care. 

“I'm not sorry about–” Valjean pauses, then shakes his head at himself. “I'm sorry, Javert, I don't know what to say. I'm tired. But I'm not– unhappy, if that is what you fear?”

Javert looks down for a moment. “Perhaps it was too overwhelming. In that case, I am sorry. But this seemed a way to give you what you wanted, without harming you. I told you I could not do that again. But that does not mean that I won't...”

His voice trails off, and he visible shakes himself, and then forces himself to meet Valjean's eyes. “Sleep. You have been so strong today. If you think I force myself to do this to please you, you are wrong. You don't ever have to fear that. If you knew what you look like, with your entire body straining like that, bearing any torment...”

“It did please you?” Valjean asks, and feels another surge of shame at how hungry his heart suddenly is for those words. Has he not had Javert's hunger and desire dripped onto him with every word and touch? He should not be so eager for more, and yet...

Javert makes a sound that is somewhere between hoarse laughter and despair, although there is a rare gentleness in his eyes when he at last leans down and presses his lips to Valjean's knuckles. “More than I think is good. I promise. Sleep now.”

Javert's hand is still in his own, and Valjean cannot make himself let go of it. Instead, he curls his fingers around Javert's, embarrassed yet again by this need. But Javert's skin is warm, and his presence seeps into him until the emptiness inside him is filled by warmth, and even though Javert does not talk, Valjean feels his hand remain in his own even as he drifts off into exhausted sleep at last.


End file.
